


what restless hearts we harbor beneath our skin

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Series: What We Are (FMA Angst Week 2018) [7]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, FMA Angst Week 2018, Post-Promised Day, Postpartum Depression, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15541062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: For FMA angst week 2018. Day 7: Fluff (or Illness)I can't do this.





	what restless hearts we harbor beneath our skin

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the monster that I've been laboring on all week. Enjoy!
> 
>  **Illness**  
>  (noun)  
> \--a disease or period of sickness affecting the body or mind.

Ed remembers the day his son was born. A light sprinkle of rain is coming down from the overcast grey sky and a few stripes of sunlight manage to knife their way through the cloud cover. The room smells of blood and antiseptic, but it is all drowned out by the plaintive wailing from the little bundle in Winry’s arms. An enormous grin breaks out on his face and remains fixed there to the point where it starts to physically hurt.

Nicholas Van Elric, born April 18, 1918, 4:19 PM, born after thirty-seven weeks at six-point-two pounds.

“I kinda get what Hughes was talking about all the time,” he confides to Winry some time later, to which she laughs and admits that she feels the same.

It’s perfect. 

* * *

Four months later, Ed cannot remember what sleep is. Whenever he is closest to drifting into that sweet, comforting haze of drowsiness, there is a piercing wail from down the hall, because for some reason Baby Nick has a penchant for becoming an absolute banshee once the sun sets. Either he or Winry are, as a result, forced to extricate themselves from the warm solace of their shared bed in order to tend to him, because that’s what good, attentive parents do, right? More often than not, Winry kicks him in the side and groans for him to go check on the baby.

“Why _me_?” he complains, his face buried deep into the pillow. It in no way blocks out the wailing, but it’s soft and warm and he really doesn’t want to leave the blankets.

Again, his wife jabs him in the ribs, and he is too tired to discern whether it is her foot or her elbow. “Two words—labor pains.”

How long is she going to lord that over him, goddammit? Heaving an exasperated sigh, he sits up. “ _Fine_.”

Usually he can calm Nick down rather quickly, but lately the baby seems to have gotten fussier and fussier. It doesn’t matter how much Ed rocks him or pats his back or bounces him on his knee. The crying doesn’t stop so much as it does wind down, surely but agonizingly slowly transitioning into fitful whimpers and whining. Further more, the tears never truly cease, still spilling down his son’s cheeks in thick wet rivers. There’s an agony there, at knowing your child is in pain or discomfort of any kind, but being unable to make it all better.

“C’mon, kiddo.” He rubs soothing circles across Nick’s back the way Granny showed him how, but it doesn’t seem to be doing any good. Why isn’t it doing any good? It worked for Granny. It even worked for Winry. It _should_ be working for him too. “C’mon, papa’s here.”

A loud, pitiful whimper escapes the baby before the crying resumes. Ed fights a sudden, powerful urge to bang his head against the wall.

Growling—and it is an actual growl, the back-of-the-throat feral kind you expect from animals but not people, and it startles him a little—he stalks over to his room, still cradling his infant son. The crying rouses Winry, who blinks blearily up at him, looking half-annoyed and half-bewildered by the intrusion to her night’s sleep.

“He won’t calm down,” Ed explains irritably as he all but shoves their son into her arms. “I failed. Your turn.”

She shoots him a particularly unamused look before she starts rubbing circles on the baby’s back. Miraculously, and to Ed’s utter astonishment, Nick starts to calm down, crying replaced by a fitful but contented murmuring. “Yeah, I _know_. Your daddy’s _so_ inconsiderate.”

A thrill of—something—goes through him. Grumbling something about cold-blooded women (he may or may not reference the wrench), he storms off to the kitchen. Some of his research notes have been left scattered across the breakfast table, neglected in favor of the chaos that comes with a young baby. With a huff, he collapses into the chair, eyeing the papers and books forlornly. He can’t even remember where he left off earlier that afternoon.

Winry finds him a few minutes later, having placed Nick back in the nursery. Her hands find his shoulders as she leans over him, her chin coming to rest flat atop his head. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he returns dully.

“Baby’s asleep.”

“Yippee.”

There’s a pause. Her arms come to wrap themselves around his shoulders. She smells vaguely of spit-up and machine oil. It’s a strange combination. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says, and almost means it. “I just... How come I couldn’t...?”

He doesn’t need to finish. How come he couldn’t calm his own child into a sense of security. He’s meant to be a father, isn’t he? Fathers make their children feel safe and protected. So why hadn’t it worked? He spent two hours—it only takes her a matter of minutes.

A soft kiss is pressed against his cheekbone. “It’s got nothing to do with you, y’know. I think he just tired himself out.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Her cheek presses against his. She’s warm, her skin soft like butter. He closes his eyes and lets his senses absorb her, drink in her soothing presence. “I bet if I’d gone to him first, he would have been the same way.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.” Nick’s a difficult baby. Granny even said so, and she has plenty of experience with babies.

Her hand touches his jaw and turns his face so that he’s looking at her. In the curtain of nocturnal darkness, her eyes sparkle like polished sapphire. “So you’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” he says, and almost convinces himself he means it.

* * *

It should not surprise Ed so much that Al is so good with the baby. Al is, well—he’s _Al_. He’s got the aura of gentleness and likeability that radiated even through the metal shell that entrapped him for those four tumultuous years. It attracted stray dogs and stray cats (the latter of which ended up tactfully hidden in the armor) and managed to disarm even the grouchy, jaded chimera duo of Zampano and Jerso (who are still apparently in contact with Al, unsurprisingly). Little children used to be drawn to him despite the intimidating armored appearance, and are even more so now that he has a kind, human face that can smile warmly at them. So really, it makes _sense_ that Al is good with babies, too.

Just because it makes sense doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother him.

 _It **shouldn’t**_ , Ed thinks to himself, then corrects himself. _It **doesn’t**!_ He sees Al playing peek-a-boo with Nick, and an uncomfortable, prickly feeling is quick to take up residence in his chest. Ed ultimately chalks it up to too much stress and too little sleep. That’s all.

“He’s _amazing_ , Brother,” Al says, eyes shining with wonder. Nick is currently cradled in one arm, sound asleep and more tranquil than Ed has seen him in the last few months.

And because he knows he should, Ed puffs his chest out and juts his chin into the air. “Damn straight he is! He’s my kid, after all.”

“I’m just still trying to wrap my head around it,” his little brother goes on with a chuckle. “I mean— _you_ , as someone’s _dad_.”

That uncomfortable prickle returns. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

It must come out sharper than he intended, because the teasing smile on Al’s face falters, ever-so-slightly. “Nothing! Just that it’s weird seeing how much you’ve grown up, that’s all—how we’ve _both_ grown up.”

That last part feels strangely tacked on. Ed chooses to ignore it. Changes the subject. “You’re good with him.”

“I guess.” Al shrugs, like it’s not a big deal how he makes Nick so complacent and serene within minutes. That’s something even Winry, on her best days, can only dream of achieving. “I’ve always been good with little kids. I guess I’m good with babies too?”

Even though Ed had just thought the same thing himself only moments ago, it sets off something discordant in him to hear Al say it. “Well—maybe you should get married and have kids of your own. Hey, Mei’s still single, right?”

Al turns beet red and splutters indignantly, which wakes Nick and spurs him into crying. Ed cackles, unapologetic. It’s always satisfying to know he can still assert his dominance, can still embarrass his little brother. That, at least, he’ll always be good at.

* * *

“You know,” Winry purrs when they are alone, her breath alluringly warm is it tickles his collarbone. “This is the first time we’ve really been alone since Nick was born.”

Her lips capture his and— _God_ , he forgot how soft they were, her warmth and the taste of her on his tongue. His hands instinctively cup her shoulders, travel down the length of her muscular arms. She must have taken a shower, because she smells of soap and citrusy shampoo rather than baby spit-up. It’s been a while since they actually _touched_ each other.

For a moment he can almost forget—

About Nick and sleepless nights. About Nick and crying. About Nick and Al playing peek-a-book. About Nick laughing as Winry blows raspberries against his stomach.

Oh, fuck.

He pulls away suddenly, his heart pounding. His ears ring, for some reason. “Al could come back at any minute.”

Oblivious to his mounting distress, she grins at him, bright and mischievous. “I guess we’ll have to be _quick_ then.”

This time, he that kisses her. He wants to drown in her, to drown everything out until it’s only her and him and no one else.

* * *

That night, he dreams he’s in the mine shaft in Baschool. Between the twisted metal and the trickle of dust and the cracked, weathered stone, Ed is reminded of a crypt of some kind, a natural casket for anyone who gets trapped in it. There is blinding, white-hot pain—liquid, boiling, all-consuming—rolling through him in relentless tidal waves. Blood gushes hotly from his mouth, thick and coppery and lividly _red_. He can barely breathe around it, the smell flooding his nose. Wetness spreads stickily across his back, plasters his clothes to his skin as it freezes from the cold, his breath coming out in icy clouds.

There’s a giant fucking girder through his abdomen.

His vision flashes violently between dark and light and bright, bursting color. It whirls and spins—and suddenly Kimblee is there. Standing in front of him, eerily immaculate and paradoxically angelic in his white suit and long, fluttering scarf, the former Crimson Alchemist casts an imposing figure. Fedora pulled low over his face, Ed can only make out one eerie blue eye and a smile that’s far too wide. Jutting out from pearly teeth, the Philosopher’s Stone has a bloody, malevolent glow to it.

A gust of icy wind slices through the ambient air. Ed’s teeth chatter, hair dripping into his face, obscuring his vision in bloodied gold. He hears the crisp _snap-snap-snap_ of Kimblee’s jacket as it billows outwards.

Then there is a shrill, plaintive cry. A sharp, incessant ringing fills Ed’s ears, his chest clenching so tight that the notion of breathing is abandoned in an instant. He looks up sharply—his bangs choose _that_ moment to fall away like a curtain.

Cradled delicately in Kimblee’s arms, Nick mewls without fear or anger. It’s the sort of loud, vocalization that all babies let loose soon after their birth, just to prove to the world and to themselves that they are alive. Before Ed’s eyes, Kimblee’s teeth lengthen and sharpen, eyes burning a menacing blue light that cuts through the gloom. The shadow he casts suddenly stretches until the floor and the walls are alive with bladed, abnormal patterns. One by horrifying one, eyes snap open everywhere, smiles curling through the darkness with razor-edged fangs. Ed cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot move. Even if he wanted to, there is a fucking girder in his stomach, pinning him to the ground, he can’t fucking move oh god oh god that’s my son—

“Isn’t he adorable?” Pride-Kimblee purrs.

Ed bolts upright with a broken gasp in his throat, every nerve electrified. He hears Nick crying in the distance and does not think, only throws his legs over the side of the mattress and takes off running.

When he stumbles into the nursery, though, Winry is already there. Her hair has been tied back into a loose, sloppy bun because god knows Nick has grabby hands when it comes to hair. The baby himself has been lulled into a fitful, petulant murmur that is a mere shadow of his earlier crying. Nick is lying on the table, flat on his back and reaching absently towards the ceiling, as though he could grab it in his little hands and bring it down to his level. At Ed’s footsteps, she looks up sharply, face flashing with alarm.

His expression must not help. “Ed? What happened?”

“I...” He’s supposed to be a genius, but words are failing him right now. His mind is blank and his tongue feels like clay and that uncomfortable prickle has returned with a vengeance. “How’s Nick?”

“Nick?” she repeats, bewildered.

The tension falls loose from his muscles, all of a sudden. It leaves him strangely dizzy. “I—I heard him crying.”

At this, she relaxes almost immediately, her face breaking into a weary but radiant smile. There is warmth in it, reassurance and kindness, but for some reason it feels strangely patronizing. Clenching his teeth, Ed looks anywhere else

“He’s fine.” When he looks back at her, she has scooped Nick up in her arms and is holding him as if to prove to Ed just how utterly unharmed the baby is. His son blinks at him with hauntingly golden eyes. “He just needed a diaper change.”

A diaper change. “...oh.”

She peers at him, brow furrowing in a contemplative and concerned manner. “Is something wrong?”

_What if that was real and I couldn’t save him—_

“Nothing,” he says blankly. His feet move of their own accord, turning him around and already stumbling back into the hall. “I’m—I’m going back to bed.”

* * *

The equations don’t balance.

Ed is missing something, he knows it. He stares impatiently at the arrays in front of him, the glyphs and the scripts and the lattices, and waits for his mind to fill in the blanks. His pencil is poised over the paper, ready to mark, to connect, to allow the entire universe to spill from his fingertips. Even if he can’t transmute, alchemy is still a science with which humans can understand the world, the flow and ebb of life, of energy, of the cosmos through biological and physical processes. He breathes in, breathes out, waits for the world to work through him.

Nothing.

He stares at the papers. Stares, and stares, and stares. Waits, but nothing happens. He should know this. He should. But he stares at it and his mind is frustratingly, infuriatingly _blank_. Where’s the rush that comes with tearing the face off nature and staring at its wholehearted, unadulterated majesty? Where’s the thrill, the excitement?

An exasperated sigh leaves him and he starts fumbling around for the last book—where did he put it? He looks beneath piles of papers, but it’s not there. Sorting through the stack of books at his side doesn’t yield anything either. _The **fuck** did I put it?_

He scans the bookcase. _Pine green cover, pine green cover, pine green cover—_

Nothing.

“I _just_ fucking had it,” he hisses, whirling back around to his desk. A fresh surge of frustration goes through him, hot and throbbing. His hands fist his notes and shove them this way and that before he realizes what he’s doing. Drawing back, he sees that some of the books have slid off the desk to fall gracelessly to the floor, some of them half-opened and face down so that the pages crease at haphazard angles. One of his pencils juts out from between his fingers, snapped in half, wood splintered messily at the end.

Next to his feet, the book with the green cover has fallen open, face-up as though mocking him. Ed blinks at it dumbly.

Great. Now his notes are mess.

Growling curses under his breath, he bends down to scoop it up. None of the pages are bent, luckily, so everything is still legible. No overall damage. No ink over the sentences and words. Nothing is smudged. It even, by chance, fell open on the page he was looking for.

But there’s something... wrong. Glyphs jump out at him and it takes him several seconds before he can remember what they mean. Somehow, someway, a lag has inserted itself between the information and his ability to process it. The longer he stares, the less sense it makes. Entire sentences need to be completely reread before the words even register.

A migraine is coming, insidiously slow. He pinches the bridge of his nose in order to ease the building pressure. The hell is going _on_? Why can’t he just _focus_?

In the distance, he hears Nick start crying.

There is a violent, jagged flash of— _something_ —that makes his vision blaze a bright, pulsing red.

The next thing Ed knows, the wall is dented with a small but definite impression. No longer in his hands, the book is flat on the floor, face-down so that the pages are crumpled awkwardly, and directly across from him. He breathes in, breathes out, in harsh, choppy panting that does nothing to stave off the roil of emotions in his gut.

Hinges whine from behind him as the door cracks open. He glances over his shoulder just as Winry’s head pokes through, her hair twisted into a sloppy braid thrown over one shoulder. He notices a faint, orange splatter on her leg cheek that looks like sauce, so he takes that to mean she was cooking up until now. Silently, she peers at him, taking in the way his hackles are raised and the deep furrow of his brow with eyes that are steady and curious and do not judge. Then her gaze flashes over to his desk to drink in the disorder of the books and the clutter of loose papers, the pencils scattered across the floor, the book at near the wall and the dent in the paint. Finally, slowly, she looks back at him, the sapphire cabochon of her eyes sparkling with concern. For some reason, that only serves to make him bristle.

“Hey,” she says, stepping fully into the doorway. “You okay?”

“Fucking _peachy_ ,” he snaps. He stalks over to the book and scoops it up. The pages are officially creased. Hastily, he tries to smooth them out, but he must tug too hard because the page tears slightly. A flurry of curses falls loose.

“Something happen?”

Is it not _obvious_? But, no, he swallows back the bile stinging in his throat, because it simply doesn’t make any _sense._ It’s not Winry’s fault he hasn’t been able to make any progress for the last few days. It’s not her fault that alchemy, once his solace, has transformed for him, turning from a passionate fervor to a strangely insurmountable task. It’s not her fault that he’s become a modern-day Sisyphus, trudging uphill while rolling a massive, metaphorical boulder that seems to have gotten stuck on the way up.

Closing the book, he sets it down on the desk. He shuffles around through the papers, stacking them neatly to one side and returning order to his notes. Even as he sorts through them, he finds himself struggling to make heads or tails of it. Which, wow, is just _pathetic_. “It’s nothing. Just having trouble concentrating, that’s all.”

“Oh.” He pretends not to notice her footsteps as she crosses the space, even when her hand comes to rest upon his shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready. Maybe you should take a break.”

“Not hungry,” he says. The idea of food hasn’t even remotely crossed his mind, frankly, but then again, neither has the consideration of how much time has passed. Now that the door is open, he can smell the succulent aroma of cooking meat and steamed vegetables. It doesn’t stir his appetite in the slightest.

“Ed.” She takes his jaw in her hand and turns his face to look at her. He is greeted by a frown that is half-stern, half-worried. “You haven’t eaten _all day_.”

“I’m fine.” He all but collapses back into his chair, ignoring the way it creaks beneath his weight. Where did he—dammit, he just _had_ the damn book!

“Ed—”

Oh, there it is. Bottom of the pile. Figures. “I need to finish this.”

“It’ll still be here when you come back,” Winry insists, but he’s already started flipping through the pages again. Where is that damn section? He could have sworn—ah, _there_ it is. Now why was he looking at this particular section, and what connection was he hoping to make with his current findings?

 _Fuck!_ He clenches his teeth and wants to scream. _I just **had** it!_

Above him, she lets out an exasperated sigh, and then she presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine. I’ll bring something for you later, okay?”

He barely hears her, because the thing that’s suppose to come easily to him is taking far too much of his effort. “Uh huh.”

* * *

For some reason, Ed finds himself avoiding the nursery more and more. Something has changed, somehow, at some point when he hasn’t been paying too much attention. Wandering too close to the doorway causes a pressure to fester in his chest, so intense that sometimes he thinks it might just crack him open. If Winry asks him to check on the baby, he catches himself already forming halfhearted excuses, and it doesn’t make _sense_. When did he become so averse to simply being in the same room as his own child?

 _What am I doing?_ he’s found himself thinking over and over again. _What am I doing trying to be someone’s father?_

Recently, the mere idea of holding Nick now causes him to hesitate, the weight of his son in his arms somehow becoming unwieldy to him. Nick always seems to squirm against him, crying and rebelling against what is meant to be a comforting presence. In the past, Ed would just wait for him to settle, but he finds his patience running thinner and thinner. He ends up passing the baby off to whoever is closest, and then he has to leave because he can’t stand to watch someone else make his son— _his_ son!—laugh and giggle and coo contentedly.

 _What if I can’t do this?_ That was a terrifying thought, one that grips him in the middle of the night with such a striking sense of pressure in his stomach that he finds himself choking on his own bile. _What if I can’t do this? Oh my God, I don’t know what I’m doing, what am I supposed to do?_

The ceiling above him is mind-numbingly blank as he peers up at it, trying to make sense of it all. When was it that things began to fall apart? When did his world started slipping from his grasp? When did he start feeling this itch of discomfort, like he was trying to worm his way free of his own skin? It doesn’t make sense.

Nothing makes sense.

* * *

“I’m pregnant again,” Winry breathes, and her eyes shine with almost as much warmth and excitement as they did when she told him this the first time, five months ago. She all but glows, her face bright and her smile pearly and her eyes radiant and—

And he can’t feel anything but _dread_. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Her expression falters. “Huh?”

“That’s just—fan-fucking-tastic!” He sits up, running a rough hand over his face. There’s a sharp, terrible laugh burning in his throat but he swallows it back because even he knows how inappropriate that is. “Just what we needed—another kid to keep us up at night!”

Horror gathers on her face and leeches the color from her face. Her mouth actually falls open, flopping helplessly under the weight of her incredulity. “Ed!”

And then the realization of what he’s just said hits him. His blood runs cold and _God_ , did he actually fucking _say_ that? _Fuck_. What is _wrong_ with him?

“Shit—I—” What kind of horrible monster is he that he says that about _his own child_? Nausea crawls up his throat and he has to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from spilling his stomach contents all over the sheets. “Fuck. That came out wrong.”

“Came _out_ wrong?” she repeats incredulously. There’s fury there, hard and cold and definitely deserved. He doesn’t need to look to know her eyes are glittering frostily, like cut sapphires.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Why did he say that? How could he _think_ that? The sheets feel like they’re rubbing him raw. “I meant—I meant that’s it’ll be twice as _stressful_ —”

“That’s not what you said.” The bite in her voice is sharp and bladed and it could draw blood. It’s so much harsher than he has ever heard from her. Harsher than when he broke his automail, harsher than when he argued with her about becoming Scar’s fake-hostage, harsher than when she scolded him for begging her to run away.

“It’s what I meant.” God. Is that _his_ voice? It sounds so _pathetic_.

“That’s _not_ what you said,” she repeats, even frostier than before.

“It’s what I _meant_.” The very air grates against his skin like sandpaper, and her presence is salt in the wound. He throws the blankets off and leaps to his feet, because the idea of lingering too long in the room is suddenly _torturous._

The walls of the living room are no better, because they seem to close in all around him until he’s suffocating. It’s a painful, airless sensation that makes him want to _run._ His hands find the table and he leans over it for balance, because he thinks his knees might buckle otherwise. That pressure is back, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. He can’t _breathe_.

But Winry is not so inclined to let the issue drop. Her thunderous footsteps follow after him and he swears they make the whole house shake with their fury. He can almost imagine it. Imagine the walls peeling and the foundation crumbling and the roof collapsing down upon him. The weight of it would crush his bones into powder. He’d feel the rupture and _pop_ of every last organ. Would there be blood? He supposes that depended on whether or not he was impaled by anything, but he knows it would hurt, that the rubble would run brilliantly red as a result. In fact, he can almost hear it—the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of scarlet rivulets off the edge of a stray stone.

Would that really be so bad?

She seethes behind him, a force of nature confined to human skin, fire and brimstone radiating out from beneath her flesh. She must hate him now. And why wouldn’t she? After everything that’s happened and all the times he’s fucked up, how could he possibly think that he could do this? Have a normal, domestic life with a loving wife and have children and be a good father?

Then, all of a sudden, a hand falls onto his shoulder. He nearly jumps, but then Winry’s rough, calloused hands are cupping his face and turning it to look at her. Her eyes are so breathtakingly blue, like blown glass, and beneath their lovely surface something dark and furious bubbles beneath. But there’s also something exhausted about her—it takes him a moment to recognize the furrow in her brow as a deep, heavy concern, the kind that weighs upon you for a long time to the point where it becomes tiring.

“What’s going on with you lately?” she asks. There’s nothing particularly tender about her tone, but nothing particularly venomous either. If anything, she looks weary. “And don’t say it’s nothing, because there’s obviously _something_ going on.”

“Winry—”

“ _Tell_ me.”

The earnestness in her eyes only serves to unsettle him, somehow. Her presence grates against him, against something he would rather not acknowledge. But she is looking at him, pleading, and God, he doesn’t want to do this to her. “I... I don’t think Nick likes me.”

He expects her to pull away, because how embarrassing is it that, after being the one who first suggested having children, now he’s failing so spectacularly at parenthood—but instead she just laces her fingers in his bangs and pulls a little closer to him. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

She makes it sound like something insignificant. His ears burn, and he averts his gaze.

“Ed, you’re his _father_.” Her hands are warm and rough but grounding in a way only they can be. “Of _course_ he likes you.”

Somehow that only drives it deeper. The pressure mounts and he wants to tear himself open just to relieve it. “Not as much as you or Al!”

A delicate little laugh falls from her lips. “He’s five months old. He likes _soap bubbles_ more than us.”

Shit. Fuck. He really _is_ a monster. “I’m—about what I said—I shouldn’t’ve—”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” At the mention of his earlier declarations, her eyes harden again. “And I’m going to chalk that up to how stressed you’ve been recently. But we _are_ going to talk about that later.”

That’s more than reasonable. More than he deserves. He almost wishes she would start scratching at his face because that would be more fitting, more deserving. “Okay.”

Her gaze searches his face and he wonders what she’s looking for. “When was the last time you got a full-night’s sleep, Ed?”

Now that’s a good question. Ed doesn’t think he even _remembers_ what a full-night’s sleep felt like.

Again, she sighs, her hands dropping. He almost immediately wishes for them back. To think that touch could be so comforting. “Get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk more about this in the morning.”

“Okay.” When she ambles back to their room, though, he can’t bring himself follow. It feels like he’s lost the right.

* * *

It’s late in the afternoon when little Nicholas starts crying, and Ed is tasked with calming him. But the weight of his son feels foreign and cumbersome in his arms, and the rocking motions that used to come so naturally to him are suddenly choppy. Screaming only louder at the treatment, the baby’s face starts to redden and grow wet with tears. Ed clenches his teeth around a growl rumbling in his throat, unable to legitimately remember what silence is.

“ _C’mon_ , kid.” Ed knows it’s not soothing or comforting, but he’s tired and irritable and every second longer he spends in the nursery makes him want to bash his skull into something. Preferably something hard, something that will crack his head open and allow his brains to spill all over the place. Anything to relieve the building pressure. “Stop _crying_ , dammit!”

“Brother?”

He glances up. Al’s head pokes through the doorway, eyes shimmering with a wary sort of curiosity. The reluctance is unusual, and if Ed were not currently holding a screaming baby, perhaps he would have inquired upon it. As it is, what stirs in him at his brother’s intrusion is a surge of annoyance and embarrassment. He can’t find it in himself to meet his little brother’s gaze, averting his eyes anywhere else—the wall, perhaps, because the wall doesn’t judge or think him an inadequate parent.

“What do you want, Al?” Nick’s grubby little hands find his bangs and tug _hard_ , hard enough that Ed feels it to the roots. He smothers a curse as he tries to pull away.

Al inches forward a smidge, warily, as though he’s treading on eggshell and expects the floor to crumble beneath him at the wrong step. “Do you, um, need some help?”

“ _No_. I _don’t_.” He wrenches himself free of Nick’s grabby hands, but a tuft of golden hair is _also_ liberated, clutched tightly in little fingers. A fresh sprig of rancor unfurls in Ed’s gut. “I’m _perfectly_ capable of handling my own son, _thank you_.”

Nick, the little traitor, only wails louder.

“You need to cradle his head,” Al offers tentatively.

A bolt of something dark and jagged goes through Ed at that. He shoots his brother a glare, to which said brother flinches back. “That’s what I’m _doing_.”

More screaming rewards his efforts. Ed can feel his left eyebrow starting to twitch erratically.

“Are you... _sure_ you don’t want my help?” Al’s voice rings with tentativeness.

“If I want your help, I’ll fucking _ask_ for it.”

Again, Al flinches back at the sharp words. He looks, Ed realizes, as though he’s facing some terrifying beast, trying to judge how exactly to approach it so that it won’t snap his fingers off. Darkly, Ed wonders what he must look like, to elicit a reaction like that.

Maybe _that’s_ why little Nick won’t stop crying.

Growling low (like an animal would), Ed all but thrusts his son into Al’s arms. “Fine. _Here_.”

“What— Wait a minute!” It gives Ed a strangely sick thrill to see Al fumbling so gracelessly and blindly with the baby. God, when did he become so _awful_? “Brother!”

But the baby soon quiets, and Ed _seethes_.

“Shh, hey baby.” Slowly but surely, the crying gives way to a fitful murmuring, which is still not entirely calm but it is a vast improvement. Relief suffuses onto Al’s face. “Yeah, there we go...”

“Great. _Fantastic_.” Something hurts, sharp and twisting. Ed wishes he could rip himself open and scoop all the ugliness out, but he can’t—feelings don’t work that way. They’re disgusting, messy, horrible things that warp you from the inside out. He feels like he’s being eaten alive and he can’t stand it. Stifling a snarl, he storms towards the door.

A hand falls hard on his shoulder and grips hard, affixing him in place. It only rankles Ed further. “Brother—are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m _wonderful_.” The sarcasm burns coming up, like vomit or bile. “Why do you ask?”

The hand on his shoulder coaxes him to turn around. The sight of Al cradling his son, so effortless and so naturally, is almost painful to look at. He finds himself having trouble meeting the soft glimmer of genuine concern in his brother’s eyes, because that’s almost as bad—hell, it’s worse. It’s worse because Ed is so awful and Al is so good with Nick and maybe babies can inherently sense the virtue of someone’s heart, the goodness versus the ugliness.

“Well, I mean, your chi is kind of...” Al makes a vague gesture with his free hand.

“My _chi_?” Ed repeats. Isn’t that the weird Xingese thing that Ling and Lanfan and the bean princess can sense? Wait—when did _Al_ learn how to sense that? Is there anything else Al’s been keeping from him? What the _fuck_?

“It’s...” His brother pauses, mouth twisting into a grimace as he evidently tries to search for the right word. A soft, truncated growl rumbles in the back of Ed’s throat as he waits, which only makes Al look even more hesitant. “... _worrying_. And I’m just a little... _concerned_ is all—”

“... _wait_.” Is Al saying what Ed _thinks_ he’s saying? Oh, he’d better not be, because Ed is _not_ too much of an adult to kick his little brother’s ass. “Have you been _reading my mind_?”

Al’s eyes widen slightly at this, drawing back a bit as though he’s expecting punches to start flying and wants to get as far out of range as he can while also being subtle about it. His adam’s apple bobs faintly as he swallows. “I mean, n-not in _ten_ tionally—”

“ _Un_ believable!”

Little whines come loose from Nick. It draws Al’s nervous energy away, has him focusing back on calming the baby down. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay... Um, Brother, how about we put Nick down, and then continue this _outside_ —”

 _We_ , he says! Like Ed’s even _remotely_ part of this! His vision flashes bright and bloody and the words are bursting out before he can stop them—“Y’know _what_? Why don’t _you_ raise him, since you’re so fucking good at it!”

He doesn’t hear Al’s response to that, or the pleading note of it, because Ed is already storming out into the hallway. As he does, the front door opens and closes, and then suddenly Winry is there, cradling a couple bags of groceries that are overflowing loosely from the confines of the brown paper bags. If she weren’t the sort of person who works with hot metal and power tools for a living, he’d almost be concerned about the weight of it crushing her. Actually—no, scratch that. With the way his insides are roiling, furious and hot and blacker than pitch, he actually can’t bring himself to care either way.

“Hey Ed? Can you help me with—” But she cuts off as he sweeps past her, and perhaps his dark mood is radiating off of him because he senses her immediately tense up. “Okay, what happened?”

“Nothing,” he spits, just as Al emerges from the nursery.

Winry’s skeptical gaze itches against Ed’s shoulder blades. “Are you okay?

For _fuck’s_ sake. He whirls around with a snarl. “Why is _everybody_ asking me that? Do I not _look_ fine? Because I am _perfectly fucking fine_!”

The outburst makes her falter, alarmed. She glances over at Al, seems to see something that alarms her further, then looks back at him. “I was just—”

“I need air,” he announces, and slams the door hard behind him.

* * *

His stomping footsteps carry him all the way through town. The countryside blurs by, far too bright, far too idyllic for him to pay it too much of his attention. Foul thoughts stew inside his skull and make it hard for coherency to intervene. He’s not even sure _why_ he’s mad, just that he _is_ and that the emotion is completely dominating him and he can’t make it _stop_.

Suddenly he’s standing at the riverbank, the soil rocky and compact beneath the soles of his shoes. The water glitters whitely as it rushes past with a mighty _whoosh_ and thick swathes of foam and rocks jutting out from the swift blur of the current. Its cry thunders through him, makes his bones knock and vibrate. Part of him wants to throw himself to the rocks, hope that the rapids can beat out all the acrimony and aggression until there’s nothing left. Another part wants to silence the noise, and would transmute a dam if only he were still capable. The sunlight blinds him where is flashes across the river. He closes his eyes against it—bright spots dance through the darkness.

For a moment, all he can do is stand there, vibrating with the force of this foreign, all-consuming rancor. It’s as though every fiber of his being has been imbued with an insidious buzz, rebelling against itself and plotting to tear him apart, little by little.

Only then does it occur to him how _heavy_ his eyes are. God, he’s _exhausted_.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. It’s irrational, incongruent. Sometimes things happen without explanation, like sudden accidents or people growing ill. But afflictions of irritability and insomnia have a _source_ of some kind. Maybe he could chalk it up to the stress of being a new parent. Maybe that would explain the exhaustion, the way his nerves are stretched raw and taut. But the nightmares? The constant frustration? The inability to feel comfortable in his own skin?

No, that doesn’t add up. There’s no explanation for why he suddenly can’t seem to take enjoyment in anything, why everything has turned dark and sullen and dreadful to him. Why he can’t seem to find an iota of peace anywhere. It’s illogical, inexplicable.

Tentatively, his eyes flutter open. Had it happened all at once, or was it slow coming? And _when_ did it start? The internal interrogation yields nothing, only leaves him even more frustrated.

 _Helium—no, Hydrogen, **then** helium. Lithium, beryllium._ Breathe. In, out. The fresh air seems to stab at his lungs. _Carbon—no, wait. Boron, **then** carbon. And... oxygen? No, that’s not—then what comes next? Nitro... no, fluori... no! Where the fuck is bromine again?_

“Gah! _Fuck_.” He can’t _think_. “What’s _wrong_ with me?”

There’s a restless bristling inside him that demands to be staved. He paces left and right, and is suddenly very aware of his automail leg. Its weight seems to tug at him, pulling him down, down, down, until he thinks he might sink into the earth. He earned this because he was an idiot, because he wanted to do something impossible and dragged Al into it. Who’s to say he won’t do that again? Maybe he’s doing that right now, dragging Winry and Al and Nick into his self-spiral, the fucking disaster that he is, unable to do anything but drown everyone close to him. Didn’t he do that with Hughes, too? He’s the whole reason that Elysia is growing up without a father and Gracia has to move on without her husband. And he couldn’t even save Nina either, which, wow, says a _lot_ about his record, doesn’t it? Because he should have known, should have figured it out, _God_! He’s just a fucking mess that destroys and destroys and destroys and what the fuck was he _thinking_ , trying to be a father? He can’t protect anyone. He’s never been able to protect anyone, to look out for anyone.

 _Maybe I can’t do this_ , he thinks suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt. _Maybe I’m not meant to do this. Maybe I was never meant to do this._

Fate doesn’t exist, but if it did, surely it wouldn’t allow him to drag children down with him. ...right?

 _Well, why not?_ He chokes a laugh, sharp and bitter and terrible. It sounds like something broke deep inside him and maybe it has. Maybe it really has. _Already offed Elysia’s dad and killed Nina. I’ve **already** dragged little kids down._

A sizable rock rises up in front of him. At the sight of it, he is struck with the sudden, inexplicable urge to _hit_ something.

The weight of his metal foot crashes hard against the stone surface. It releases a thrill of visceral satisfaction in him. He kicks it again. Again. And again, and again and again and again and—

What happened to him? Where did that joy go, when Nicholas was first born and Ed’s breath was taken away and he was on the verge of tears? What _happened_? Where did it _go_? Suddenly it’s all equations he can’t finish and sleepless nights and nightmares and screaming babies and everyone asking if he’s _fucking okay_ —

Winry’s eyes shimmering cerulean and stern as she tries to assure him he’s a good father.

 _Crack_.

Al managing to soothe the baby into contented sleep, gracefully and without any hint of difficulty.

 _Crack_.

Nick wailing late at night, in his dreams, ringing in his ears, his pudgy weight awkward and strange and Ed can’t even fucking hold him right.

 _Crack_.

His vision turns burning red. He envisions crushed bones and pulpy flesh and spurts of warm, fresh blood. In fact, he can almost _smell_ the coppery heaviness of it, a precursor to silent nights and _finally_ being able to rest—

Ed nearly trips on his own feet stumbling back, his heart throbbing in his throat and ears. The pressure rising in his chest feels like it’s going to burst open.

Did he—

Did he just imagine—

His heel is twisted awkwardly. It keeps him from running away as fast as he can, reduces him to an ambling limp.

* * *

“You really did a number on this,” Granny says as she examines the busted ankle, which is—along with the rest of the leg—splayed out on the table so that she might get a better view. The lenses of her spectacles catch light as she peers down her nose at the prosthetic. One hand is cupped around the joint, the other resting just above the knee as though to pin it to the table. With practiced hands, she rolls the ankle gently from side to side, trying to determine where, exactly, the damage lies. “Remind me what happened again?”

Ed crosses his arms and looks anywhere else. He feels like he’s twelve again, some stupid kid who doesn’t know how to take care of himself or his automail. Embarrassment burns in his ears and he tries to keep his discomfort to a minimum. “I... tripped.”

“Tripped.”

“Badly.” He tries to clamp down on the impulse to fidget, because that will just make him look guilty. Sitting here with his leg detached makes him feel exposed. “I think I wrenched the foot loose.”

“And ruined most of your toes.” She pulls out her pipe and taps the end of his big toe, which is concaved to the point of being misshapen. The three toes directly after it are each in varying stages of dented disrepair. “Must have been _quite_ a fall.”

As it turned out, his shoe wasn’t strong enough to protect his foot from the impact. If Winry here, he can imagine how furious she would be... especially after the fight with Al, which he would probably talk to her about, which means that Ed is going to have to face a very awkward situation at home. _Great_. “Can you do me a favor and _not_ tell Winry?”

Granny peers at him as though he knows exactly the sort of discomfort he’s experiencing and has no plans to make this any easier. “Fine. Then _you_ have to tell her.”

“Sure. Later.”

She harrumphs, probably suspecting that he doesn’t mean it all, but doesn’t call him out on it, thankfully. Her pipe is returned to her mouth. “I need to go to the back and find the spares in your size. It’ll take a minute. In the meantime, make yourself at home.”

 _Easier said than done_ , he thinks as he watches her retreat. The homeliness of the old Rockbell house is so familiar and nostalgic that it’s sickening, whatever comfort it’s meant to provide a stark contrast against the earlier horror and nausea he experienced at the riverside. He’d rather not think about that, but it’s hard not to, when his childhood comes rushing back to him. Running through the halls as a child, playdates and dinners. Laughter and warmth and camaraderie.

And at the riverside—

He—

What kind of _monster_ is he?

Thankfully, Granny returns before he can ruminate upon it too deeply. He watches silently as she begins to work, with the practiced hands of an experienced engineer. The foot has to be wrenched loose due to the damage of the ankle joint. “I noticed you haven’t come around very often lately, Ed.”

“Oh. Uh.” That’s true. The last time he came over must have been—months ago. Wow. “Sorry. It’s been... busy.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t call him out on his utter bullshit. “Especially with the second baby on the way, I’d imagine.”

“Yeah.” The reminder makes his gut clench in odd, painful ways. He can’t even connect with Nicholas. This new baby is probably going to hate him just as much, if not more so.

The damaged toes are yanked out in a fashion that is made no less disturbing by the fact that they are metal. Ed winces, imagining if they were flesh. Scary. “You know, I remember when you and Al both came back to Risembool after that all nonsense—the Promised Day, it was called? Odd name.”

He clamps down hard on the impulse to argue on that front. The Promised Day isn’t really something he wants to relive right now. “What about it?”

“Well, you were both so twitchy and jumpy,” she says. The toes are replaced, one by one, with a satisfying click. Ed wonders how it would feel if the leg were attached. “I didn’t think either of you would ever settle down.”

Well, she isn’t wrong about that. Those first few months after the Promised Day were strange and foreign, his body seeming to rebel against the stillness of the country life. After so many years of constant motion, settling felt like stagnation, like inertia. Come to think of it, he was restless then, too. Snappish and constantly aggravated, unable to be placated, temper flaring over the most minor of disputes.

But that was different than now. Very different. Then he was just restless. This is something entirely different. “What’s your point?”

“No point. Just an observation.” After fixing the toes, she moves on to the ankle joint. “It’s just something I saw a lot in some of the soldiers who came back from Ishval, way back when.”

Something about the insinuation rubs him the wrong way. “I wasn’t in a war, Granny.”

“True.” The damaged joint is ripped free. She observes with a sort of grim satisfaction before huffing and dropping it onto the table. “But let’s face it. Few people go through what you boys did. And those sorts of things don’t just go away, Ed.”

“What are you talking about?” Of course things don’t go away. The past can’t be rewritten, but it _can_ be left behind.

Granny pops the new ankle joint into the foot with a particularly loud click, like a puzzle piece fitting into place. “You know, when you bury things, they tend to grow, just like seeds. Only you might not like what grows out of this—it tends to be a lot nastier than the thing itself.”

He works his jaw. The longer he’s here, the more he wants to leave. “I’m not burying anything.”

She only responds with a grunt as she affixes the foot back to the main leg. Lifting it up with a deceptive strength, she fixes him with an unreadable look. “Get ready.”

Without another word, she positions herself next to him, and he braces himself for the pain of reattachment. It hits without much warning, sharp and shooting and his teeth clenching against a hissed breath. Luckily, it’s swift, and though a ghost of it lingers for a moment or so, it doesn’t last.

“You alright there, Ed?”

As if this even bothers him anymore. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what the soldiers said,” Granny murmurs, and he feels his blood run cold.

Ed leaves as fast as he can.

* * *

The first time Winry told him she was pregnant, Ed found himself thinking about Hohenheim a lot. Mostly about what he might’ve felt, when he’d been in Ed’s position (whatever resentment Ed felt towards the man has since ebbed into a grudging respect, though he will _never_ admit it for as long as he lives).

Ed resolved, at the time, to be _better_ —only now it feels like a pipedream, like a foolish wish made by someone who didn’t know the world well. Not unlike his desire to bring back his mother, now that he considers it. Perhaps it was simply impossible. Perhaps there was just something in his blood that made it impossible to be a functional parent.

In all honesty, Ed doesn’t want to blame Hohenheim for this. Even if he wasn’t an ideal parent, it was clear that Hohenheim wasn’t an overtly _bad_ person. To even consider that this awfulness—this temperamental shortness and frustration and utter dread of parenting—could stem from the man that ultimately _saved the country_ feels like spitting on his grave, somehow. It’s an ultimate act of contempt, and Ed doesn’t want that. That’s wrong and unfair and utterly irresponsible. But at the same time, if he doesn’t pin it on his heritage, then he is faced with the all-too-real possibility that there’s something in him that is plainly _defective_. And that is even more terrifying, enough to make Ed’s lungs grow cold and his stomach lurch.

He’s not entirely sure, then, where this leaves him.

He and Al never really talk about the fight (really just him bitching for no reason). They should, but they don’t, because Ed finds himself avoiding Al for as long as he can. After a while, Al ultimately has to return to Xing, but promises to write, and there’s an insinuation that this is not over.

Winry never brings it up, but it’s clear that she wants to. Maybe she’s waiting for him to start it. If she is, it’s a pointless battle, because he can ignore it for as long as it takes. He starts spending the night in his study even though he can’t focus on anything remotely alchemic. It’s also because she’s trying this tactic where she brings Nick out of the nursery and into the living room to play, probably trying to encourage him to interact with his son. A valiant effort, but a wasted one, because he can actively feel himself growing nauseated or unnerved at the idea of spending too much time in the same room as Nicholas. It makes no sense and is anything but rational, yet here he is locking the study door and trying vainly to bury himself in books.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes,” she warns him, and gestures vaguely to the lamp.

“I’m fine,” he insists, flipping the page. The glow of fire and burning kerosene is bright yellow. It illuminates his study like it would a crypt.

She lingers in the doorway for a long time with a disapproving glare that he pretends to ignore, until she finally slams the door shut. It means nothing.

Sometimes he catches laughter from beyond the door and his gut clenches. He wants to be part of that. He does. But somehow it feels like he’s missed his chance, and he’ll never get it back.

 _I can’t do this_ , he thinks while he’s staring at his old notes and finds himself unable to concentrate on them for too long. Then it clicks, like someone finally knocked something into place.

It clicks and he feels like he’s going to fall to pieces because of it.

_I can’t do this._

And he’s not talking about alchemy anymore.

Maybe this is what Hohenheim felt, when he left. Maybe he just didn’t want to burden Mom anymore, or didn’t want him or Al to suffer growing up. Maybe he thought it was for the best.

Fuck. He really is a wretched person, isn’t he?

He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t. He _really_ fucking doesn’t. But once the thought has occurred to him, it won’t leave him alone.

* * *

It’s an early Sunday morning, balmy and wan. Winry tells him about a picnic she’s going on with some clients of hers and Granny’s, and asks if he would be willing to join them. He lies, saying something about important research, which has her sighing and scooping up little Nicholas and promising to be back sometime this afternoon.

Once the door closes and she disappears down the path, he sets about packing. He doesn’t plan to take much. Clothes, a few books, some food rations. Just enough to last him long enough that he’ll be permanently out of her hair. After all, he doesn’t want to come back unless he has to.

The suitcase snaps closed. It feels final.

Part of him hesitates, because this is his last chance. He could still be happy, maybe. Could shake off—whatever the hell this is—and everything could go back to normal. Maybe it’s still possible, to go back to normal. You can’t go back but you can reclaim, right? He got his arm back, and Al’s body back, so maybe—

But what if it’s not? What if this doesn’t _end_?

What if it goes on and on and on forever?

That’s a terrifying thought.

And then there’s those _other_ thoughts, like the ones from the riverside. Horrid thoughts that tickle at the back of his mind, eager to remind him just what he’s capable of, how warped he’s become. What if those end up becoming a reality?

He clicks the lock into place. Like hell he’s going to drag them down with him.

Just as he does, though, the door creaks open, and he gradually becomes aware of eyes peering at him. The weight of the gaze itches upon the back of his neck and the blood stills in his veins. But there’s no way... it’s—it’s a draft, coming in from a window left open. Sometimes if he leaves a window or two open, the cross breeze will pull the door this way and that, open and closed. Yeah, that’s it—

“Ed?”

 _Shit_.

Wincing, he glances over his shoulder. Sure enough, Winry stands in the doorway, her long hair fluttering loosely, unrestrained, down the length of her shoulders and back. A floppy sunhat is tipped awkwardly on her head, casting a shadow over one side of her face. She’s draped in a flowing white sundress that almost hides the subtle bump of a second pregnancy, but it’s an insubstantial thing with a skirt that whispers this way and that, as though it can’t keep still. She looks like a specter, almost, a spirit risen from the grave simply to remind him of what he’s about to kill.

“What are you doing?” she asks. He swears her voice echoes.

His mouth is dry. He swallows and turns back to the suitcase. Well, damn, that sure as fuck looks incriminating.

“Are you going somewhere?” And now there’s a hint of accusation there.

“Yeah.” His throat hurts and he can’t look at her. Fuck. He is so, so, _so_ screwed. “Um, there’s this symposium in Central—”

But she knows him too well to fall for that. “Which I’m just now hearing about?”

Dammit. So there’s no way around this, then. So much for the note he agonized over for hours. It’s still folded up in his pocket, waiting to be left on the pillow.

He draws in a shuddering breath, turning halfway so that she’s in his periphery, but he’s not looking directly at her. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

A beat of silence passes through the room. Ed can’t breathe.

“Didn’t know what else to do,” Winry repeats. Her voice is both cold and hot, fire and frost. The sharpness of it could pierce steel. “How about _talk_ to me, you idiot? Did _that_ ever occur to you?”

It had. And in each of the scenarios he envisioned, it only ended badly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you _won’t_?” She crosses the distance until she is standing right beside him. Her presence radiates the sort of silent indignation that usually manifests in the form of glares and brandished wrenches. “Did _that_ occur to you, or were you too busy _packing_?”

“You’d just throw me out anyway,” he whispers.

Her hand grabs the fabric of his shirt and whirls him around to face her. There’s a hardness in her eyes, blunt like the end of a hammer. “ _What_?”

“You’d hate me.” Fuck, he’s starting to shake. His eyes itch.

She stares at him incredulously for a few moments. Then her face softens unceremoniously, her brows furrowing with concern and her lips pursing. A hand reaches up to brush his bangs, but he flinches back at the last second, which makes her face flash with hurt. “Ed... I wouldn’t hate you.”

He pushes her hand away. Her touch burns like acid. “Yes, you would.”

“I wouldn’t!”

Fuck. _Fuck_. His eyes sting and burn and he thinks he’s going to cry. God, how pathetic _is_ he? “I’m gonna hurt you.”

She doesn’t say anything to that.

“I t-think... about it sometimes... I don’t _want_ to—” He has to look away because if he watches hatred slowly suffuse onto her face, it’s going to kill him. “S-Sometimes I get so _mad_ , and I don’t even know _why_ , a-and then I think of _hurting_ you or Nick and I think ‘what if that happens’? What if let you get hurt, or if _I_ hurt _you_ , o-or—” A hot, fresh wave of nausea rises up his throat, and he has to clap his hand over his mouth to keep his stomach from spilling out everywhere. He can’t _breathe_. “And Nick _hates_ me. He _does_ , and I think s-some part of me hates him _too_ —or at least _resents_ him, and I don’t _want_ that, I can’t s- _stand_ it, a-and—and— _fuck_.”

“Ed,” she murmurs, voice tremoring.

“Fuck—I don’t—” A sob breaks loose, like a thunderclap against a storm. “I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me.”

And there it is. Every awful thing ripped free and laid bare. Now she can gaze upon it with open disgust. He won’t need to run away, now, because she’ll turn heel all on her own. Probably take little Nick far, far away from here—

Her arms drape his shoulders and suddenly she is pulling him close. He can hardly believe it, can hardly comprehend the warmth of her body against his, the firmness of her shoulders and the weight of her strong arms. It doesn’t feel real, even if the embrace is tight and crushing in a strangely comforting way, so that he doesn’t feel the need to squirm loose. She smells like apple blossoms and motor oil and laundry detergent, and it’s the strangest, most cloying combination—

“God _dammit_ Ed.” Her voice is low and soft and thick, breath warm against the shell of his ear. She sounds like she’s crying. His chest clenches at that, at the idea that he’s causing her pain. “This is why you _talk_ to me. So it doesn’t _get_ this bad.”

She’s hugging him, and not pulling away. He waits and waits and waits, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch or recoil. And then—

And then he’s crying. It’s been a while since he cried, but he knows it’s not supposed to feel this wretched.

* * *

“You need to talk to someone about this.”

“Winry—”

“It doesn’t go away unless you _do_ something about it!” Her hands find his face and cup his jaw. She peers up at him, cerulean eyes, deep and shimmering. They look like someone distilled the summer sky into them, just to see how intense a shade of blue they could achieve in the human iris. “It doesn’t have to be me, or Al, or Granny, or anyone you know. It can be a total stranger. But you need to talk to _someone_.”

The idea of telling someone chills him deep to the bone. “I _can’t_.”

“You have to. For all our sakes.” As if to emphasize this, she places a hand on the curve of her stomach. When he still doesn’t look convinced, she adds, “And for your sake. You said it yourself—you can’t go on like this.”

“Cold-blooded woman,” he huffs, and she laughs lightly.

A kiss is pressed to his cheek. “Please?”

He sighs, and closes his eyes. She’s right about one thing. He can’t go on like this. He doesn’t _want_ to go on like this. If there’s a possibility that it can _end..._ “Okay.”

Surprise causes her to draw back a moment, but she immediately leans in closer. “O-Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats.

Warm, soft lips find his. She tastes faintly of cinnamon. “Thank God,” she murmurs against his mouth, and then her forehead touches his.

* * *

The sun is setting in a September sky. Everything is ablaze in bright, ocher light, golden and orange and even traces of reddish violet. It’s more vivid than the autumn leaves in the trees, almost painful to look at for too long. A few straggling clouds cut dark against the bright expanse, forming a jagged pattern just above the upcoming twilight. It’s as beautiful as it is fearsome, and there’s something to be said about the awe it inspires, even if there’s no trace of rain or thunder in the air.

Nick wriggles in Ed’s arms, trying to get comfortable. The doctor and Granny are both tending to Winry right now, so he’s the only one who can properly watch over the toddler.

Breathe. In, out.

Little fingers tug at his shirt and a pair of wide, golden eyes peer up at him. Has Nicholas always had his eyes, or did they gradually gain a xanthic hue when he wasn’t paying attention?

 _I’ll do better this time_ , Ed thinks.

“Papa,” Nick babbles.

Well! It’s hard not to smile at that.

At 8:05 PM, a keening wail fills the house. Several minutes pass before Granny emerges from the makeshift delivery room. She looks tired but relieved, and cheerfully informs him that the baby was born healthy and is now contentedly wailing her lungs off.

“Her?” he repeats, a little dizzy.

“It’s a girl this time,” she says with a satisfied nod. “You should see her. Do you want me to take Nicholas?”

If he’d been asked that eight months ago, he would have gladly handed Nick off, convinced that even holding him was some sort of torture-form. Now, he smiles gratefully, but shakes his head. “Nah, I got him. I bet he wants to meet his new sister—don’t you, kiddo?”

There’s a bit of babbling that may or may not be a confirmation. Either way, it’s adorable.

The vaguely familiar smell of blood and antiseptic hits Ed as he pokes his head through the doorframe. Winry’s breathing is heavy, the kind that comes from someone struggling to catch their breath after a herculean task. In her arms is a murmuring little bundle of white swaddling cloth, with a pudgy face poking out. The crying has ebbed to a fitful murmur, and the sound of a new life causes Ed’s heart to ache with the sheer joy of it.

Bridget Sara Elric is born on September 8, 1919, 8:05 PM, born after forty-two weeks at seven-point-nine pounds.

Nick reaches out to touch her, saying something in that incoherent toddler-language of his that rings with innocent, ungrudging affection. The parents turn to each other and grin.

It’s not perfect, Ed knows, not quite yet. But he can get there. He _will._

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't know what postpartum depression (PPD) is, it's a type of depression that often affects parents within the first twelve months of having a baby. For those of you that do know what it is, you may think that only mothers suffer from it, but it affects fathers too.
> 
> Like depression, it's characterized by abnormal shifts in sleeping and eating patterns, irritability, mood swings, and a lack of interest in things you used to find interest in. Unlike depression, PPD is also characterized by severe insecurities involving being a parent or carer, anxiety regarding the baby, even feelings of resentment, fear, or anger towards the child. In some cases, PPD can result in (often unintentional, sometimes intentional) infanticide, which is why it's so critical to receive treatment. While regular depression is a lifelong struggle, PPD can be treated and go away if you get the proper help.
> 
> I have a headcannon that Ed would probably struggle with this at some point or another because, let's face it, the Elrics have been through a _lot_. Ed's nearly died a couple times and they've both seen a lot of shit and have carried around a lot of guilt, so even if they _do_ have a happy ending, they would still have to deal with that, at the very least. That trauma doesn't just _go away_. If anything, it would probably pop up in some pretty weird ways, and I think this would definitely be one of them, especially considering Ed's turbulent history with his own parents (Al would probably recognize it much faster and would work through it, while Ed is more likely to spend some time stuck in denial).
> 
> Now I want to emphasize here that Ed _would not hurt either Winry or the baby_. He'd be able to stop himself and he would not be the first person with PPD to struggle with those kinds of thoughts. Those are called "invasive thoughts" and they _do not mean_ that the person struggling with them is a monster in _any way_. It's a little like PTSD or suicidal thoughts in which they're hard to control or prevent. They just _happen_. And just because those thoughts creep into your head _doesn't mean you have to or will act on them_.
> 
> So, this is the crowning jewel of my series for FMA angst week 2018. Thank you so much for reading and if you haven't checked out the other parts of the series, I highly encourage you to do so. Have a good day (if you can)!


End file.
